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Post by Swampirella on Apr 10, 2023 18:49:48 GMT
I've read quite a few of them over the years, from Amazon. Hit and miss, like most short story collections, but on the whole worth the low price.
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Post by helrunar on Apr 10, 2023 21:29:57 GMT
Thanks, Scarlett!
All the best, Steve
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Post by samdawson on Apr 11, 2023 16:50:58 GMT
Thank you for the mention! David Longhorn has been ploughing the furrow of small press horror publishing with Supernatural Tales for some years now and I hope he will have the energy to continue for many more; so many similar publications have fallen by the wayside for very understandable reasons.
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Post by helrunar on Apr 15, 2023 23:44:54 GMT
Thanks to a friend, I learned that this past February, Shawn M. Garrett (an author of Cthulhuiana among other things, it would seem) published a translation of the 1910 novel El Vampiro by Honduran author Froylán Turcios. The novel is published through an outfit called Strange Ports Press, but seems to be available only through internet retailer "Amazombie." One can preview the text via the "look inside" feature. Blurb:
Froylán Turcios' "El Vampiro" (1910) — here translated into English for the first time as THE VAMPIRE — is one of this Honduran writer's oddest works, a Romantic/Gothic novel with overtones of Decadence (Italian Decadent Gabriele D'Annunzio was a large influence on Turcios). The idyllic life of young Rogerio Mendoza and his beautiful cousin Luz are disrupted not just by a predatory priest, but by a legacy of violence and mysterious death in his family line, even as their home contains a locked room that must never be opened. Those seeking a Honduran version of DRACULA should seek elsewhere, but this intoxicating and beautiful tragedy casts a strange spell all its own. Includes an Afterword by the Translator.
H.
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Post by Jojo Lapin X on Apr 25, 2023 19:19:05 GMT
The only thing by Waters that I have read is The Little Stranger (2009), which is a bona fide ghost story. THE LITTLE STRANGER is extremely boring. Waters's AFFINITY is fantastic, however. Read it now! I feel I need to push Sarah Waters's AFFINITY some more. Just thinking about it makes me smile. Read it now; thank me later! It is very clever.
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Post by helrunar on Apr 25, 2023 22:20:19 GMT
So, is it up there with Legend of the Seven Virgins by Victoria Holt? I recall you described that as "a truly subversive novel."
H.
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Post by Jojo Lapin X on Apr 26, 2023 14:04:42 GMT
So, is it up there with Legend of the Seven Virgins by Victoria Holt? I recall you described that as "a truly subversive novel." H. A comparison between the two would be a meaningless exercise. I will say, however, that both novels made me laugh out loud at the audacity of the authors. Waters in AFFINITY initially makes the reader believe she is writing a sober, depressing account of the plight of lesbians in Victorian society, with supernatural overtones. And there is that aspect, sure. But she is also up to something quite different and more satisfying.
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Post by helrunar on Apr 29, 2023 4:18:03 GMT
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Post by helrunar on May 5, 2023 1:05:05 GMT
John Linwood Grant's latest facétie riffs upon a certain book review recently published in that much-discussed organ, the Times Literary Scandal-sheet.
From the redoubtable pen of Mr Grant:
“You seem a touch ‘out of sorts’,” remarked Mr Bettleworth as he and Canon Foxthrup — that much-revered canon of Buntlebury Cathedral — sat down to lunch. His friend sighed. “I am, I am, Bettleworth. I fear that I have been complicit in a folly.” “I was not aware that you had architectural leanings.” The canon winced. “Not a tangible folly. No, I foolishly allowed an ambitious young Oxford scholar to have access to the correspondence of Dr Montpelier Grimes, the late rector of Fremly. You will remember that he left me his papers, after his unfortunate demise in the Turkish baths on Lampitt Street.” “Grimes?” Mr Bettleworth employed a lively eyebrow. “The chap who kept ocelots, and gained a reputation for ‘enjoying the close company of many a bluff herdsman’?” “The same.” Canon Foxthrup sniffed cautiously at the dressed crab sent up by cook. “And it now appears that our scholar had more imagination than scholarship. I was informed today that his resultant monograph is fraught with what one might at best call ‘interpretations’.” “In what way?” asked Mr Bettleworth. The aforementioned wince became more of a shudder. “Let us say that an over-inventive mind can be a terrible thing. The academic in question appears to be of the firm belief that Dr Grimes had only ‘natural’ inclinations. And thus, Grimes’s diary entry of January 14th1854, for example, has been transcribed as ‘Drove to Hunstanton, and saw much of that broad and flattened land.’” Mr Bettleworth, struggling with a piece of crab shell, looked up. “And the original entry?” “The usual Uranian purple prose. What Grimes actually wrote was ‘Driven to distraction by the touch of the butcher’s boy’s hand’.” “That does sound more like the rector,” admitted Mr Bettleworth. “Is there aught to be done?” Canon Foxthrup dabbed his chin. “Not a thing. I fear that in decades to come, Montpelier Grimes will be entirely misunderstood. My only comfort is that I did not let this Oxford chap have access the rector’s laundry lists — the Good Lord alone knows what he might made of those...”
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Post by helrunar on Jun 30, 2023 13:26:58 GMT
John Linwood Grant is at it again...
A WARNING TO THE CREDULOUS
Taking tea in the garden one day with his old friend Canon Foxthrup, that notable adjunct of Bunbury Cathedral, Mr Bettleworth was intrigued by the sight of a pair of battered field-glasses on the small outdoor table. “I say, Foxthrup, are you planning to resume your ornithological expeditions?” The canon smiled. “Not with my gout, sadly. No, these were an idle purchase. I had them off an antiquarian who came across them on one of his travels in the South-West.” “Are they uncommonly made, or of a notable provenance?” At which the canon’s smile became more vague. “An interesting question. It so happens that my antiquarian was told an odd tale — he was informed by the country squire who owned them that if you had the necessary sensitivity, they offered access to certain disturbing vistas of the past. The squire had apparently known a chap who was quite affected by such an event.” “Really?” said the other, with sudden interest. “Oh, most likely nonsense, of course. But do try them, dear fellow. I fear that I myself am too steeped in the sensible rote and routine of Anglicanism to be susceptible to that sort of thing.” Mr Bettleworth raised the aforementioned glasses, which were curiously heavy, and sought to focus on the ruined tower of St Lawrence-without-the-Marsh, once a minor incumbency set on low scrubland to the north of Bunbury. Alas, the view remained as uninspiring as ever, no matter how hard he peered or how he positioned the glasses. “Well,” said the disappointed Bettleworth, eventually. “I have always believed myself to have a certain openness to unusual phenomena, but it appears not.” Canon Foxthrup took back the glasses. “No doubt the tale was pure invention.” “No doubt,” Mr Bettleworth echoed, and draining his tea-cup, bid the canon farewell. It was clear, however, that the episode had unnerved him, and it seemed as if passers-by on the High Street had an uncommon interest in his progress as he went about his errands. Some stared for a moment, others turned away, as if to hide their expressions, and you can imagine that it was with a certain relief that he closed his front door behind him, unburdening himself of his parcels. His daily, Mrs Pritchard, looked up from her sweeping, her face growing quite stiff and pale. Mr Bettleworth had had enough. “Mrs Pritchard, tell me plainly,” he said, sharp, “Is there something strange about my appearance? Something different, even… haunted, perhaps?” “Haunted, sir? No, I wouldn’t as say that. But if I was a bolder woman, and not wantin’ to take home the spoiled butter in your pantry tonight, I might remark as to why you do have two great inky circles a-painted round your eyes, like as one o’ they panda-bears.” Mr Betttleworth turned, aghast, to the hall mirror — and in confirming his daily’s veracity, was also reminded of that period, long past, when he and his friend had been up at college together. The younger Foxthrup had been, it must be admitted, inordinately fond of practical jokes…
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Post by Shrink Proof on Jul 11, 2023 19:50:53 GMT
It seems to be just a link to msn news homepage. To avoid having to deal with Microsoft (World Domination) Inc., here's a better link.
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Post by helrunar on Jul 11, 2023 21:11:01 GMT
Thanks so much, Malcolm. That IS much better.
I deleted the original post in the interest of spiritual hygiene.
cheers, Steve
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Post by helrunar on Jul 23, 2023 3:32:45 GMT
Tonight's gem is from one Hugh Williams and concerns a Mercian natural formation, "The Humberstone," with a LOT of folkloric history surrounding it (unless Williams just made all this up from his own imagination). I love this sort of thing so I feel compelled to re-post. Williams, our man in Leicester, writes:
A mangled block of stone lies in a small field in Leicester, between a branch of KFC and a housing estate. People walk past it everyday, oblivious to its identity...what is it, and why is it there?
The Humber Stone is a massive rock that sits with most of its mass under the earth, like a stone iceberg. According to early antiquarians it was used by some of the ancient inhabitants of the area as a sacrificial altar. The stone has gone by other names – Hell Stone, Holy Stone, all tenuously suggesting that some kind of ritual may have gone on here. The nearby area of Humberstone is definitely linked as it appears in the Domesday book as “Humerstan”, probably meaning “Humba's or Humma's Stone”.
The whole of the Humberstone used to be on display but various attempts have been made through history to bury and even break it. Probably because of the “Hell Stone” name it once went by, a vicar had the entire stone covered with earth to create a mound then performed the rite of exorcism over it. On his way home he was thrown from his carriage, breaking his hip. It is said that a local landowner then attempted to break parts of the stone off to flatten it so a plough could pass over. His fortunes went into an immediate downward spiral, ending eventually in bankruptcy with the man ending his days in the workhouse.
After hearing of “groans” emanating from the stone at night, a man from Barkby named Pochin decided to “investigate” the Humberstone, armed with a revolver. Whatever happened that night is not fully known, but he managed to shoot two of his own fingers off in his panic, blasting away at something in the dark.
In 1925 a farmer built a haystack, complete with corn dollies, over the now half-buried Humberstone which spontaneously combusted, causing the fire brigade to come out twice to quell the flames. The stack re-ignited a third and fourth time, forcing the brigade to run four hoses from Humberstone village to finally quell the flames.
When work began on a new road near the stone a family living in a street next to the Humberstone were disturbed by their 10 year old son being menaced by a “horned figure”, which he drew for teachers at his school. He said he didn't know what it was but referred to it as “the thing that I see at the end of my bed”. So unsettling was this phenomena that the family moved out but a few years later their parents moved in to the council property, whereupon the boy's grandmother claimed she had been throttled “by a ghost”.
Finally, in 1985 a man taking a driving lesson was making his way carefully past the Humberstone when both he and his instructor claimed to have seen a UFO in the form of a small silver disc – hovering in the sky above the stone!
Whatever the truth of any of these tales, today the Humberstone now lies half buried in a lonely little field next to the main road, hidden by hedges. The deep gashes made by the many attempts to break it up are still clearly visible but with its main mass underground it is difficult to get an impression of how great this monument once was. If you intend on seeing it for yourself by car then I would recommend parking at the KFC and crossing the road by foot into its little field. An ignominious fate for such a grand old stone but while building developments rise and fall...it's still here.
I take a close look at the Humberstone and some other strange places around Leicestershire in my book The Mystery Of Mercia II – available at the link in the comments.
By Hugh Williams.
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Post by helrunar on Jul 23, 2023 3:37:44 GMT
In other news, I learn from social media this evening that an adaptation of M. R. James' "Casting the Runes" is due to be a feature at the Fringe Festival in Edinburgh. The show is a production by a company called Box Tale Soup, and puppets are either part of the show, or the entire show--hard to tell.
Dates I see are August 2-15, 17-27, at the Pleasance Courtyard (Venue 33).
Hel.
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Post by helrunar on Aug 15, 2023 13:28:35 GMT
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